Age of Myth (The Legends of the First Empire #1)

“What?”

“Did he beat you?” Raithe asked.

“Who? Shegon?”

Raithe nodded. “Because if he did, I could see why.”

Malcolm frowned. “No, he didn’t beat me. The Fhrey treat their slaves well. Certainly better than you.”

“You’re not my slave.”

“And I thank all that is sacred for that.” Malcolm waved at a pair of tiny black bugs that had gathered in front of his face. Insects were coming out with the warmer weather, which wasn’t all that warm yet.

“If the Fhrey were so great, why’d you bash ole Shegon on the head?” Raithe asked, realizing he ought to have inquired sooner, but the death of his father, concern over being hunted, and their constant search for food had pushed out other thoughts.

Malcolm plucked up a brown pine needle, of which there were millions. Rubbing it between his fingers, he shrugged. “Even a well-treated slave prefers to control his own destiny. I saw a way out and took it. Everything would have been fine if you hadn’t lost your mind. Shegon would have been angry, but not enough to bother chasing after us—he wasn’t that ambitious—but now that he’s dead, revenge will be a matter of honor.” He paused, looked over, and asked, “What about you? Why’d you do it?”

“Kill him?”

Malcolm nodded.

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t have. When he killed my father, I didn’t think. I just acted. Just like Herkimer would have. Funny thing is, I never wanted to be like him. Didn’t want to go off and fight in the wars. Had no desire to seek fame and glory. That was his ambition…his and my brothers’. I would be happy living a simple life with a wife and a few children. And yet all the years my father spent teaching me to fight just kinda kicked in. You know what I mean?” He looked at Malcolm and realized he didn’t. Not the blank stare this time but no recognition. A Dureyan would have understood, but Malcolm had spent too much time with the Fhrey and barely seemed human.

“I have no excuse other than to say I did it for him. Sons are supposed to do that, aren’t they? Avenge their fathers. That’s how things are done in Dureya, at least.”

“Not a nice place, I gather, this Dureya.”

“Barren rock and dirt mostly. Lots of thin brittle grass, too. Wonderful if you’re a goat.”

“And the people?”

“Mean.”

“You’re not mean.”

Raithe raised a brow. “You don’t know me or my people. Clan Dureya is famous for growing offensive bastards who’d rather drink than work, fight than talk, and are the source of all evil in the world.”

“If you were as nasty as you suggest, you probably would have killed Meryl and me, taken the horse, and not bothered to bury your father.”

Raithe threw up his hands. “I’m odd. A disappointment to my clan. The son of Coppersword who never went to war. In Dureya, everyone fights. The Fhrey call for warriors, and up go the hands. It’s how we eat, because we aren’t goats. And you know you’re living the high life when you envy goats.” Raithe frowned, threw a stick into the fire, and sighed. “My father just wanted some decent land. Crossing the river was the first sensible thing he’d ever done.”

“Your father was being unreasonable. Dragged you to where you aren’t allowed—the Rhune chieftains all signed treaties assuring you’d keep to your own lands.”

“Shegon was unreasonable, too. Telling us to leave is one thing, but you can’t ask a man to throw away a sword. Swords might be common in Alon Rhist, but they’re rare on this side of the rivers.”

“That wasn’t unreasonable. A treaty violation is one thing, but doing so with weapons is an act of war. You and your father would have been killed on sight had an Instarya patrol found you. But Shegon was from the Asendwayr tribe, and he was giving you a way out. Still, leaving you with the sword would have been irresponsible. If you lingered or doubled back and the Instarya found you, they would view your armed presence as an invasion—a scouting party perhaps. The Instarya would have marched on Rhulyn. What Shegon did wasn’t unreasonable; it was an act of kindness.”

Raithe hadn’t known any of that. He wished he still didn’t.

“It’s not all your fault,” Malcolm added in a softer tone. “Shegon could have explained things better, but the Fhrey aren’t in the habit of reasoning with those they consider only slightly above animals.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered. The sword was my father’s pride, his honor. It’s who he was. Handing it over would have been the same as placing his head on a chopping block. Worse, he’d have been giving up his soul.”

“And now his great blade is yours.”

“Such as it is.” Raithe drew the broken copper out of the scabbard and looked at the severed edge. “Shegon’s blade cut through it like I was holding a stick, and this was the best weapon in our clan. It’s been handed down from father to son for generations. Legend holds it was crafted for my great-great-grandfather by a Dherg in return for saving his life.” Raithe slipped the shattered sword back into its sheath. Then he bit his lip and took a breath. “I haven’t thanked you.”

“Don’t bother. I did you no favor,” Malcolm assured.

“I would have died if you hadn’t.”

Malcolm raised his head to peer curiously at Raithe. “You’re still going to die. You’re just going to spend some time beforehand with a hungry stomach and sore legs. But on the bright side, you’ll be remembered. One doesn’t kill a god and go unnoticed.”

Clap!

Out in the dark, beyond the ring of the firelight, a loud wood-on-wood strike ripped through the night. Not a snapping branch, although that would have been disturbing as well. They had heard those sounds before, animals of unknown size roaming in the night. The sounds of the forest made it hard to sleep. But this wasn’t that. Not a crack, this was a slap, an odd hollow sound, and both of them got to their feet. Together they peered into the gloom as Raithe put more wood on the fire.

“What was that?” Malcolm whispered.

“Dunno,” Raithe whispered back. “Could be anything.”

“How about some examples?”

“I suppose the worst thing would be a raow.”

“Worst thing? Why did you have to start with the worst thing? Why not assume it was a dead tree falling on another?”

“Relax. I don’t think it’s a raow. We’d have seen human bones by now, and we’d also be dead.”

“Oh, well, thanks for the reassurance. So what else might it be?”

Raithe looked across at him and smiled. “A falling tree?”

Malcolm smirked. “Seriously, though…”

Raithe looked around at the moss-covered rocks and then at the trees. “Leshie?”

“And what is a leshie?”

“Woodland spirit. They’re probably covering our path so we won’t know which way to go in the morning. They’re mischievous but not generally dangerous to grown men.”

Malcolm stepped back as the heat of the fire grew with the added wood. Part skeptical, part hopeful, the two locked eyes with each other.

Raithe nodded. “I’ve seen them before during a spring wood gathering. They’re these little lights that float above the grass.”

“Those are fireflies.”

“Sure, some are, but the brightest lights are leshies, whose favorite sport is luring children away from home. Sometimes to a fast-flowing river or deep lake where they drown.”

“Don’t you have any happy stories?” Malcolm grimaced. “You’re depressing the fire spirit.”

Raithe shrugged and tossed another stick in the flames. “I’m from Dureya; it’s what we have.”

Malcolm peered back over the top of the flames at the dark of the woods beyond, then shook his head. “I don’t think it’s leshies.”

For a person who had been certain of his own death without Raithe, Malcolm was decidedly resistant to his guide’s wisdom. “I’m not so sure. I think they’ve been confounding us,” Raithe said, “hiding the obvious trails, keeping us lost in this blasted forest.”